I’m sitting impatiently in the waiting room at the Emeryville train station on a fine spring day bobbling my leg and nibbling on a candy bar from the vending machine. It’s a comfortable room with lots of seating. I watch people coming and going, a motley parade of humanity, hear the announcements and read the overhead signage. I’m always excited before my train comes in, kind of like a little kid on his birthday.
The Zephyr to Chicago will be here in twenty-seven minutes. So here’s the deal. Since I got back from ‘Nam, I never get on an airplane. I was supposed to be on a transport plane and at the last minute my orders got switched. Three of my best buddies perished when that plane went down in a fierce rain storm. The rugged jungle-covered mountains were hazardous. We did everything together and losing them was hard. I suppose I’ve never completely gotten over the guilt of surviving.
Yeah, maybe it’s hard to believe, but I’ve managed to live my life just fine here in the Bay Area driving or taking the Greyhound, but I’ll confess my most favorite mode of transportation is the train. I know most folks would consider train travel old fashioned but there is something soothing about it that appeals to me.
My late wife, Doris, and I were married for forty-three years. We were both local San Francisco kids and went to Lincoln High in the Sunset district. I even took her to the senior prom. She was real good looking with dark brown hair long and straight like the girls wore it then and chocolatey eyes and tall like me. I was a skinny basketball player, with a mop of blonde hair, kind of a cut-up and only a fair student. When I squeaked in to San Francisco State, I realized I needed to shape up and decided to study accounting.
That was short lived because in my junior year, it was 1967, I enlisted in the Marines because several of my friends had already been drafted. I felt it was my duty. My dad had fought proudly in World War II, and I never forgot his stories. It was a crazy time with the war heating up and anti-war protests all over the country. Doris and I got engaged before I left for basic training, and it was tough for her to wait it out.
I missed her like crazy. She wrote me tons of letters, and I figured it was lucky she was occupied getting her teaching credential. Somehow picturing her at home gave me hope and courage. I read each letter she wrote twenty times.
When I got back from my tour of duty in Vietnam, thankfully in one piece, at least physically, we got married. I forgot about finishing college though I must say I’ve regretted that many times. I knew, as a veteran, I wouldn’t have fit in with all those hippies anyway. I went to work for Doris’ father who had a big hardware store on Judah St. I had flashbacks for a long time and jumped at the sound of a car backfiring. The memories faded, but I never forgot what I experienced or the loss of my friends.
Our biggest disappointment was that Doris couldn’t get pregnant. Though we saw a raft of doctors, no matter what we tried, we couldn’t have kids. That made her sad and depressed, but somehow she learned to accept it or it would have brought us both down. Doris loved her fourth graders and taught many years and was crazy over her toy poodles, Ming and Sunny and spoiled them like crazy. She doted on her nieces and nephews too, and so did I.
Her heart attack four years ago, two days before Thanksgiving, came out of nowhere. She was sitting on her recliner and we were watching American Idol. Suddenly she got an odd look on her face, dropped her knitting and collapsed to the floor. I called 911 and they rushed her to the hospital but she was gone before they could do anything to help her. It was rough to accept because it all happened so quickly. The doctors said she had major blockages in several arteries. I wish we would have known but she really had no symptoms.
It’s not easy being alone but I’ve had to learn to adjust. I volunteer three days a week delivering Meals on Wheels to shut-ins, go to the gym, play poker with my Thursday night crew. I’ve been enjoying writing classes at the senior center and I’m tickled to have a creative streak that I didn’t know I had. In the evening when it is too quiet at home, I find myself longing for those lazy train trips which help me forget my grief and loneliness. I’m on my way to spend a couple of weeks with Doris’ sister and her husband who live outside of Chicago.
Even though I wouldn’t get on a plane, I sent Doris on trips to visit her sister in Chicago and her cousin Roz in New Jersey, to Hawaii with girlfriends and anywhere she fancied, even Paris and London. For our fortieth anniversary, we took a cruise to Alaska and picked up the ship in San Francisco. I ate myself silly that week and never missed the midnight buffet. We enjoyed car trips driving up the coast to Mendocino and spent many summer weekends in the Napa Valley or Tahoe and regularly went to the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland.
Two years ago, when our niece got married in Chicago, Doris reluctantly agreed to take the California Zephyr with me, at least one way. Flying to Chicago takes four and a half hours but it’s fifty-one hours from Emeryville on the train. She brought along her knitting, her Kindle, and enough snacks to feed a small African country. Oh Lord she was antsy. Time on a train seems to stretch like taffy getting pulled on a machine. Doris kept checking her watch, walking back and forth between cars and seemed out of her element. I was nervous thinking I made a big mistake to bring her along.
However when we hit the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas and the Rocky Mountains, passing pristine lakes and herds of buffalo, and lumbered through Salt Lake City and the plains of Nebraska she gradually settled in and understood why train travel, at least once in a lifetime for her, was worth the long, extra hours. She turned toward the window, took out her knitting, and was speechless seeing the wonder of the land and nature from a different perspective. She liked sleeping on the train, even thought it was romantic, and was surprised the food was quite good. Remembering that one train trip with her makes me smile.
Over the years, I’ve taken my share of train trips by myself. I have my routine. I get myself a seat in a middle car. If it is an overnight trip I get a sleeping berth, a “roomette.” I’m lucky I can sleep fairly comfortably in the close quarters, and the gentle rolling is better than any sleeping pill. I’ll take the train to Sacramento or to Reno where I’ll do a little gambling or go down the coast to Los Angeles.
I don’t mind the food in the dining car, save up a long novel and work on crossword puzzles. Just sitting and watching the oil derricks go by or the brick rooftops and mom and pop businesses keeps me entertained. I wonder about the folks living in these rundown towns, their every-day lives, what brings them happiness, what makes them sad. Sometimes I jot notes on people I notice or things I see which I save for my writing. I might even get inspired to write a poem or start a short story.
The best part for me anyway is meeting other passengers. There is a certain train etiquette I follow. If I’m sitting next to a stranger, I nod and say “hello” but don’t say much more unless they initiate conversation. Most people like their space, as I do, and I respect that. Sometimes I can’t resist chatting about a book I’m reading or someone else has on their lap. That can be a conversation starter or not. Once in a while, I join a poker game. I’m not a bad Texas Hold’em player, and it’s a good way to kill some time. I’ve met some real characters.
Here comes my train, pulling in sleek and graceful. I gather my things, wheel my carry on and get settled in my “roomette” which has a big picture window and two reclining seats which convert to a bed. I don’t mind not having my own toilet and use the shower at the end of the car. The attendant will come by to set up the bed and give me fresh towels and bed linens this evening. I put my carry on in the overhead bin and take out my book, a Tana French mystery I’ve been saving.
I notice a handsome woman standing outside the roomette across from me struggling with her bag. I get up to help her with the heavy sliding door and she nods gratefully. We don’t even exchange a real “hello.” I’ve gone on a few “dates” since Doris died but they were just a casual movie or dinner with some widow ladies from our church. I’m considered a “catch” these days. I’m in good shape and still have my hair and my teeth. I haven’t taken the plunge to try on-line dating but maybe one day I’ll get up my nerve. It’s no fun to be alone, even in my seventies.
I glance across the hall and notice the woman in her roomette across from mine. The door has a panel with a shade that she has not closed. She appears very stiff and uncomfortable, afraid to budge, and is clutching her handbag in her lap like it has a million dollars in it. She stares out the window as we take off. She is slender, elegant but over-dressed for the train in a matching navy pant suit, ivory colored blouse, red- striped scarf around her neck and wears round burgundy-framed glasses. Her hair is steel gray in an attractive cut.
After an hour I get up and stretch and take a walk which I do frequently because sitting in one place for hours is not healthy. The woman hasn’t moved and I can’t help myself. On my way back, I decide to inquire if she needs any help. Her uneasiness is visible. I knock on her door. She gets up and opens it up slowly.
I smile. “Ma-I’m guessing you’re not accustomed to train travel?”
She seems relieved and nods. “This is my…uh, first train trip.” I’m surprised by her heavy French accent.
“Train travel is a slow way to get somewhere but I find it enjoyable. And relaxing. You learn to sway with the movement of the train and let yourself go.” Maybe I said too much. She smiles a wistful smile, sighs and lets her breath out.
“I must confess. I’ve been petrified to get on a train. My therapist insisted that I must do it to get over …well. Oh, forgive me, I don’t know why I’m telling that to you.”
Now I’m intrigued and puzzled. “Can I bring you a cup of tea? I was just going to get one for myself.” Oh hell, I can’t remember the last time I had a cup of tea, but I just knew she’d be a “tea” person. I can’t imagine what it is about train travel that has traumatized her but then again I have my story with refusing to get on an airplane. At my age I’ve learned, everyone has their stories and carries “baggage.”
I return with an herbal mint tea for her and an English breakfast tea for me in a cardboard holder and four butter cookies. I knock on her door and hand her the tea and cookies. She smiles and relaxes. Her blue eyes twinkle, and she looks years younger. She blows on her tea, takes a sip and motions for me to join her in her roomette. She even takes a bite of one of the cookies. I get my book and take the seat opposite her and attempt to read while she observes the scenery. We go along like that for another hour. She closes her eyes and dozes, and I can’t help watching her sleep when she doesn’t notice. She is a beautiful woman and reminds me of some French actress, Catherine something, oh yeah, Catherine Deneuve but with silver hair. I’ve always admired attractive women. Nothing wrong with that. When they loudly ring a gong and announce “lunch is served”, she is startled, opens her eyes and addresses me.
“I hear the food is not half bad on these trains.”
“You’re right. It can be delicious and isn’t expensive. “I decided to just go for it. “Would you like to join me? I promise I won’t annoy you with too much chatter. By the way, my name is Harold Jackson.” I hold out my hand to shake hers though I was tempted to bend over and kiss it like in some old movie, but of course I didn’t do it.
She nods to me. “I am Francoise Reins, but please call me Fran. Francoise is too much for you Americans.” She chuckles then swings her purse over her shoulder and I follow behind her. I recognize the perfume I had given Doris one year for Christmas, not Chanel No. 5 but another Chanel, yes, I remember, it was “Coco.” Doris wore it for special occasions. Thinking of Doris fills up my heart.
We sit down to lunch and each select the daily special, the beef stew which is surprisingly tasty and rich with carrots and potatoes. The food has come a long way on trains with vegetarian options, even gluten free choices and calorie counts listed on the menu. I follow her by having a glass of red wine with lunch which I never do. It was a burgundy from the Napa Valley and went well with the stew. The wine loosened my tongue.
By the time the steward was bringing us apple pie, al a mode for me; she knew: I was a widower, that I was retired, that I never fly, that I had no kids, that I sold the hardware stores which I had built in to a small chain, that I like to read, love Mexican food, volunteer, take creative writing classes— my life in a nutshell. I even told her I was thinking of writing a mystery which takes place on a train which I haven’t said out loud to anyone. She is a good listener and I enjoyed our conversation.
Finally over coffee, she talks a little about herself but I sense she is reluctant. She lives in Berkeley to be near her only child, a son, who is a professor in computer sciences at the university and is married with two children. She spent most of her life in Paris as a publicist for one of the fashion houses. I guess that explains why she appears so well put together. A divorcee for a long time, she didn’t go in to any details about her ex but I was curious about him. Fran still hasn’t said a word about why she needs to be on this train to Chicago.
We head back to our roomettes. I pull out my mystery but I keep losing my place thinking about Fran. I get carried away, imagining we’re spies and lovers speeding in a rail car on the Orient express on our way to Paris or Istanbul. That sound like some old movie I’ve seen.
When dinner time rolls around, I’m hoping she will come out of her room looking for me, but she just stays in. I chuckle at my vivid imagination and head to the dining car for a sandwich wishing she was sitting across from me. After dinner, I stay up another hour reading, ring for my attendant to make up my bed then drift off. At around one in the morning I hear screams which make me jump out of bed. I know they are coming from Fran’s roomette. I pull on my pants and knock on her door.
“Fran, are you OK? It’s Harold. Are you sick?”
She opens the door slowly and appears white and drawn. Tears roll down her cheeks and I’m startled when she comes to me. I open my arms to hold her silently. A train attendant comes down the hall wondering what’s going on, but I wave him off.
She breaks away from me embarrassed. I blurt, “It’s OK Fran. I know what it feels like to be haunted by memories.”
“That’s just the problem Harold. My memories are so vague that I have created a huge monster in my imagination which starts with trains. It’s always trains.” She sits on one end of her bed and motions to me to sit on the other.
“When I was a little child, only three years old, my family lived in Berlin. I don’t remember much but have a vague image of my parents laughing and taking me to the park, riding on a carousel, and dressing me in fine clothes. I can recall having a dark blue velvet coat and black patent shoes and strangers stopping to admire me. My recollection of my father is that he was tall and handsome. I found out he was a prominent physician. My mother was a talented seamstress.
Then the Nazis took over Berlin and things changed. Many of my father’s patients stopped seeing him. One day we were taken from our home and sent to Theresienstadt, a detention camp in Czechoslovakia. Though my father had connections in the government and thought we were safe, he was sold out by supposed friends. My parents left everything behind and we lived in a cramped room with two other Jewish families. I had taken one little doll with me. Father treated people there for no money but people gave him odd bits and pieces of their lives as payment, a shawl, a pipe.
When my father contracted typhus himself and died, mother was broken and cried every day. She was a shadow of herself. Then one horrible day, the Nazi soldiers ordered us out to the square. We heard that the Danish Red Cross was coming for an inspection and they had to make the camp look like spacious, like there was enough space for everyone. We had to line up to get on a train which would take us east to a supposedly better camp, but there were rumors about where we were really going. My mother was frantic and held on to me so tight in the train. I couldn’t breathe. The smells were horrible and there was no place to go to the bathroom. I was so thirsty. It was spring. I heard birds chirping outside. I kept thinking, even as a little girl, that the birds were lucky. They were free. The train came to a sudden stop and before I knew what was happening my mother wedged me through an opening on the side of the door that some of the people had managed to pry open to get air and she pushed me out.”
“Oh Fran. What a tale.” She kept on, her eyes glazed like she was in a trance.
“I don’t remember much other than rolling down a hill with sharp rocks and crying hysterically. A railroad worker heard me and threw me in a burlap sack. He rushed me home to his wife, and she cared for me tending to my scrapes and bruises and giving me warm milk and porridge. I stayed with them for the next seven years. They were decent people and treated me kindly. They told everyone I was their niece whose parents had died, and because I could pass for an Aryan with blonde curls and blue eyes their neighbors accepted the story. They took me to church and raised me as Lutheran but the woman knew that one day she would tell me who I was and where I came from.
That day came when I was ten. I was not totally surprised because I never felt like their church was home for me. My mother had pinned a piece of paper on the inside of the coat I wore. It had the name of my parents, Inge and Heinz Strauss. I was a precocious child, and from that moment I was determined to find out about my parents. My “mother” took me to an American army installation and they got me connected with the Red Cross. After a month of investigation, I was told my mother was killed in Auschwitz, the destination of the train that I was on. She had saved my life by throwing me off the train.
I also discovered that I had an aunt in Paris who had been searching everywhere for me, and the Red Cross contacted her. I tearfully bid farewell to the wonderful people who had taken me in and went to Paris by myself on a train. I was so terrified on that train ride that I practically passed out, but a kindly woman, who turned out to be a Holocaust survivor herself, knew something was very wrong and stayed with me until I arrived in Paris at Gare St. Lazare and collapsed into the arms of my dear aunt Matilde who raised me from that moment on as her daughter. I learned about my faith, heard stories about my parents, and gained a sense of my roots. I studied at the university, met my husband and had my son.
So many nights I wake up screaming from nightmares. I dream I’m on a train, the door opens and I get pushed off a cliff. Everyone on the train cheers. My new therapist suggested that getting on a train might be the best way to face my fears.”
She stares out the window at the blur of darkness. I made up my mind, I won’t leave her alone tonight. I reach for her hand and gently hold it. “Fran, now you lay down. I’m staying here with you, and I’m going to chase your nightmares away. No one will come for you. No one will throw you off the train. I used to be a Marine. I’m one tough bastard.”
“Oh Harold.” She smiles and lays down on her pillow while I sit on the end of the bed. I murmur gentle words to her the rest of the night and doze on and off myself. I wake up cramped and uncomfortable but feel better seeing dawn breaking through with pink clouds on the horizon while she sleeps quietly and peacefully. I slip out to go and wash up and get dressed and return to my spot on the bed. She awakens and reaches for me and pulls me down next to her. I hold her and stroke her hair.
Photo by Daphne Fecheyr on Unsplash
Joanne Jagoda 